


Close Encounters of the Unexpected Kind

by Lenore



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alien Sex, First Time, M/M, Pon Farr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 10:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick is a real-life Clark Kent, whose superpower is being adorable. When he goes through pon farr, it's Pete to the rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Encounters of the Unexpected Kind

**Author's Note:**

> The story is for [](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/profile)[**dancinbutterfly**](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/) for [](http://community.livejournal.com/help_haiti/profile)[](http://community.livejournal.com/help_haiti/)**help_haiti**.

It all starts one night when they're on stage in Tacoma. Or maybe it's Portland. Or possibly even Seattle. Anyway, the point isn't that Patrick has no idea where he is, because that's tour life for you, same-old, same-old.

The point is that one moment everything is _fine_. Patrick's voice slides up to hit a high note on "Dance Dance." The stage floors shakes beneath his feet from Andy waling away on the drums. Joe is a whirling dervish, spinning and jumping, his hair with a life of its won. Waves of teenage girls press against the barrier, arms out, trying to grab at Pete and possibly give him a handjob through his jeans if he stays still long enough.

Perfectly normal.

The next moment, Patrick catches a glimpse of Joe out of the corner of his eye, just his forearm actually, the way the muscles bunch and flex as his fingers fly over the guitar strings. The sudden and nearly overpowering desire to bite down on the tendon there, really get a good taste of it, floods Patrick.

He muffs the next line. Forgets to make heart-fingers on the word "love." Since when does he want to bite Joe? Where the hell did that come from?

Pete shoots him a look, a worried little pinch between his eyebrows. Patrick doesn't usually stumble over lines, not unless Pete is fucking with him, specifically trying to get him to mess up. He drifts closer and stops at Patrick's side, the way he used to do back in the old days when Patrick threw up before pretty much every show, a wordless: _Hey, dude, I'm right here._

Patrick can feel the warmth coming off Pete's body, a more personal swelter than the heat radiating from the stage lights. Pete's fingers move on the bass, and the sleeve of his hoodie brushes Patrick's arm. Just that little bit of contact feels like scalding water has been poured into every artery, every vein, every teeny-tiny little capillary in Patrick's body. He jerks away, which just makes Pete linger more stubbornly. Which is _so_ not helping.

The set takes approximately three times as long as forever before it's finally over. Patrick flees the stage, practically loping to the dressing room. If he can just have a second to himself, maybe he can figure out what the fuck is wrong with him. But, of course, Pete is fast on his heels, throwing open the door, breezing inside, face sweaty and bright with post-show mania.

He throws his arms open wide. "Patrick!"

Pete's been going through a huggy phase lately—or, really, ever since Patrick has known him—insisting that the only way to properly celebrate a successful show, or their video inching up on the MTV countdown, or, hey, their third beer of the evening, is with a full frontal embrace.

He comes closer, and Patrick catches his scent, fresh sweat and layered on grime (because Pete's motto is: "hygiene is for pussies") and the reek of stage clothes that haven't been washed since…well, ever. The scent slams into Patrick, and the heat surges in him again, desperate and throbbing, a million times more intense than it was out on the stage, singing through his body, _Pete, Pete, Pete_. Sweat breaks out on his forehead and trickles down his back. He's hard in an instant. And, seriously, what the fuck? If he got off on Pete-stink, he'd be the horniest, most miserable person on Earth. So the fact that he's getting off on it now can really only mean…

_Oh, fuck_.

He just barely manages to dodge Pete's grappling arms. If Pete touches him, he really can't be responsible for what he might do. _Who cares about being responsible?_ a traitorous voice pipes up in his head. _Think about what you could do to him._ A picture swims up from the underbelly of Patrick's erotic imagination, Pete with those tight pants of his peeled down to his ankles. _What's not to like?_

_Shut up!_ Patrick mentally yells at himself.

"Pete," he says.

"Yes, Lunchbox?" Pete directs one of those beaming _I am ready to adore you_ looks at him.

So not helping.

"I, uh." He swallows, but that doesn't make his mouth any less dry. "I was thinking? That I kind of need a break?"

Pete nods agreeably, not getting what Patrick is saying, like, _at all_. "Yeah, dude. After the tour, me and you—"

Patrick shakes his head emphatically. "No. Not after. Not me and you. Just me and right now."

Pete's eyebrows draw together. "So, you know we're in the middle of a tour, right?" He reaches the back of his hand toward Patrick's forehead as if he's going to check for a fever.

Patrick just manages to slip out of his reach in time to prevent a skin-to-skin disaster of epic proportions. "Yeah, I know, and I'm really sorry. I feel _bad_, but—"

"Wait." Pete's eyes go wide and disbelieving. "Is this about you going solo or something? I thought you said you didn't want that. Are you dumping us?" He blinks, as if considering an even more harrowing possibility. "Are you dumping _me_?"

"What? No. It's— _No_. I just can't—" God, he's starting to sound hysterical.

Pete lets out his breath in relief. "Oh, hey. Hey. I get it. This is that thing where touring starts to suck, and the band breaks up, like, fourteen times a day. Usually that takes longer than two weeks, but whatever. At least we've got a hotel tonight, Pattycakes. Things won't look so shitty in the morning."

Patrick nods numbly, because what else is there to do? He can't tell Pete the truth. He wouldn't even know where to start. So he piles into the van with the rest of the band and plasters on a _I'm fine, everything is just fine here_ smile and heads off to his room as soon as they hit the hotel with a mumbled, "I guess I'm just tired."

He waits a couple of hours, until it's safe to assume that everyone has settled down for the night, and then he sneaks out, taking the fire stairs and a side exit. He tries not to think about what a crappy, crappy thing this is to do, because, honestly, what other choice does he have?

* * *

Patrick calls his mom from the rental car counter. She listens, and keeps him on the line while she makes a few calls on her cell phone, and then gives him directions to a place he can go for some privacy.

"You want me to come with you?" she asks, her voice tight with concern.

There's a part of him that wants to say yes. _Mommy!_ Instead he shakes his head. "There's nothing you can do." Because that's the truth. "I'll be all right." Because he really wants to believe that.

He drives for a day and a half, only stopping to pee and grab fast food to eat in the car. The inferno in his blood has died down now that he's alone, but he can still feel the embers glowing. His body buzzes with energy, and he's almost painfully awake, like he's never going to sleep again, not for the rest of his life. He puts on the cruise control and listens to Bowie and lets the GPS tell him what to do.

There's a general store at the foot of the mountain, and he stops for supplies. The grizzled, plaid-clad cashier takes his money and makes change, and when their fingers brush, the heat flares, and Patrick can hear a low, ominous hum in his head. He hightails it back to the car.

The cabin belongs to his mother's third cousin's daughter's husband's father. Or something like that. There are moose heads on the walls. Patrick carts in the supplies and his duffel bag. He puts away the groceries in the kitchen, which is much nicer than the word "cabin" led him to expect, and gives himself a tour of the place, which takes about thirty seconds, since there are all of three rooms.

He runs out of things to do after that and pads into the bedroom, bringing his duffel. His phone starts vibrating, _again_, the sound remarkably loud considering that he has it in his bag wedged in between layers of underwear and jeans. He doesn't know why he hasn't just turned it off already. Maybe because then he'll feel truly alone. Stupid, he knows. He blows out a breath and digs out the phone and turns it off. He _is_ alone in this, and there's no point in pretending otherwise.

Outside, the sun slides past the horizon, the sky growing dark. Patrick flops onto the bed. The hum is growing louder, and a restless, insistent need twists in his belly, almost, _almost_ like desire. He pushes his hand down his pants, giving his dick a squeeze. Maybe this will take the edge off. That's what he hopes. But his dick just lies there in his grip, taking absolutely no interest in his attempt at self-help. He digs into his stash of jerk-off fantasies, but nothing does the trick, not even when he breaks his own longstanding rule and imagines Pete, down on his knees, his mouth pink and soft and so, so eager.

Still nothing. Patrick lets out a long, frustrated sigh. The problem is that this isn't about sex, not exactly, or maybe he should say, not entirely. It's definitely a party meant for two.

He groans and drapes his arm over his eyes and tries to ignore how the hum is gathering strength, how his skin feels itchy and too tight, how his taste buds are suddenly more acute, the way you feel when you're hungry for something, except what Patrick has a taste for is _skin, skin, skin_.

God, this sucks.

* * *

The slow, boiling ache takes a sharp turn the next day. Sweat pours off Patrick's body. He feels heavy-limbed, fuzzy-headed, possibly verging on delirium. His stomach roils at even the thought of eating, and he's not sure he has the strength to make it to the kitchen anyway.

In the afternoon, he drifts off and dreams about Perez Hilton, TMZ, Nancy Grace with that crazy bird-of-prey glint in her eye, all asking the same question: _Have you seen this missing Fall Out Boy?_

So, yeah. Kind of a nightmare.

Pete appears in his dream, red-eyed and sniffling on Larry King. "Patrick, man, if you're out there, just gives us a call, huh? And if somebody took him, we don't want any trouble, okay? We just want our Lunchbox back."

Patrick wakes with a start, feeling both guilty and like his privacy has been terribly violated. He really wouldn't put it past Pete to go on national television and make a tearful plea. He manages to pull himself out of bed, lurch over to his bag and retrieve his phone, collapsing back onto the bed.

"Pattycakes!" Pete nearly blows out Patrick's eardrum when he answers.

"Hey," Patrick says weakly.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt? Are you in jail?" Pete takes a big breath. "Patrick, where are you?"

"Well—"

Voices pipe up in the background. Patrick can't make out what they're saying, but he recognizes that it's Andy and Joe.

"Did not, did not, did not," Pete says hotly and then in an indignant tone to Patrick, "Tell them I didn't do anything."

There's a muffled noise as he hands over the phone, and then Andy's voice comes over the line, "Patrick." There's a whole world of _what the fuck_ in that one word.

Patrick dutifully repeats, "Pete didn't do anything."

"See?" Patrick can hear Pete say, and then Pete takes back the phone. "Patrick." He lowers his voice to a hush. "What did I do? Just tell me, okay? And I'll make it up to, I swear. I'm so fucking sorry."

_God_.

"Patrick," Pete says again, almost pitifully.

And Patrick has to hang up. He can't handle Pete's desperation. He's got too fucking much of his own to deal with right now.

* * *

By the third day, Patrick is pretty sure he's dying. His head swims, and he's shivering although his blood still feels like it's boiling in his veins, and he can't keep down even a drink of water. He pulls out his phone again, because even worse than dying at twenty-fucking-one years old is dying alone. For a moment, he almost calls his mom, because, well, _Mommy_. But he can't stand the thought that she might cry, so instead he dials Pete.

"Patrick, just don't hang up this time, okay?" Pete answers in a breathless rush.

"Okay," he manages, eyes closed, trembling. The sound of Pete's voice makes him feel stupidly teary. He really, _really_ doesn't want to die alone.

"So, here's the thing, Patrick," Pete says quietly. "You know about all the stupid-ass, crazy shit I've ever done in my whole life, and that's a hell of a lot of stupid-ass crazy. So you really ought to know that there's nothing you can't tell me."

Patrick takes a breath, and, God, he really, really wants to tell Pete. All of it. So he does, just blurting it out. "I'm from another planet, and I came here to learn about your people, and the scientists back on my home world genetically modified me so I could blend in with human society, but apparently they didn't completely neutralize my Grippkyn DNA, because I'm going through the scmyllingott, and I just—I need—" He swallows convulsively. He just told someone his secret. God. The only people who have ever known about him are his Earth family.

There's a long pause. "Okay, what did you take? And how much of it? This is really important, Pattcakes. If you hear voices telling you to do shit, don't. Because those voices are always fucked up."

"I'm not high!" Patrick yells at him.

"Seriously?'

"Yes," Patrick huffs, "and fuck you, by the way." He should have known better than to confide in Pete _the biggest fucking secret a person could possibly have._ What the hell was he thinking?

There's more silence, and Patrick testily demands, "Well, aren't you going to say something?"

"Hold on just a sec, dude." Patrick hears the sounds of typing. "I'm goggling 'mental health clinic slash spa'. Only the best for you, Pattycakes."

Patrick stabs hard at the "end" button and huddles miserably on the bed. Stupid fucking Pete.

* * *

The next time Patrick opens his eyes, Pete is standing in the doorway to the bedroom. Huh. So, apparently, hallucinations come with the scmyllingott.

"Yeah. No. You're not seeing things," the hallucination informs him.

Patrick squints, and, okay, Pete's wearing that god-awful hoodie of his, the one that looks like a monkey threw up on it. Probably Patrick's subconscious isn't so disturbed that it would have gone to the monkey-puke-hoodie place of its own volition. Probably that really is Pete standing there.

"How?" Patrick's tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. God, he feels crappy.

"Your mom." Pete takes a few steps closer, stops, shifts his weight. "So, um, really an alien, huh?"

Patrick starts to nod, but it makes him feel seasick. "Yeah."

"And this scmyllingott thing, that's like—"

"Don't even," Patrick warns him.

But of course Pete does. "You're in heat." He grins, sounding strangely delighted by the prospect.

Patrick would totally kick him if he had the strength.

"I would totally kick you if I had the strength."

Pete nods matter-of-factly. Patrick wanting to kick him is nothing new. He comes closer, kneels down at the side of the bed. "So, why didn't you just tell me? You know, instead of disappearing on us and giving me a fucking heart attack." He pushes the sweaty hair back from Patrick's face.

"Pete. Don't," Patrick tells him sharply.

But this is Pete. "Don't" has no meaning to him. He rubs Patrick's shoulders, smoothes his hand comfortingly down the line of Patrick's spine. At least, it's meant to be comforting, Patrick thinks, but that's not the effect it has. Not, like, _at all_. The seething hot want-want-gotta-take impulse that's been simmering in Patrick since this whole thing started surges violently. His senses zero in on Pete so hard, so fast it makes him dizzy. He swims in Pete-scent and Pete-touch, and of God, oh God, if only he could get some Pete-taste…

"You don't know what you're doing," he tells Pete hoarsely.

"I'm pretty sure I do." Pete leans down to kiss Patrick on the shoulder, on the neck, his breath stirringly warm on Patrick's skin.

Patrick starts to shake all over with the urge to grab Pete and just _do_ things to him. _No, no, Pete's your best friend._ The mantra sounds pathetically feeble in the face of so much need.

"Once I start I won't be able to stop. The scmyllingott can last for days. I have no idea what that would do to a human."

"Dude." Pete looks mortally offended. "Doubt my ability to tell an A-string from an E-string all you want, but don't cast aspersions on my ability to fuck for days on end. Because I take pride in that."

Hearing Pete say the word "fuck" sets off explosions of heat all over Patrick's body.

"You don't understand," he says, his voice scraped raw. "When a Grippkyn is going through the scmyllingott, it, well—it can get pretty aggressive."

Pete shrugs. "You punch me every time we write a song together. I think I can handle you being aggressive."

"That's different. It's—" A perfectly human response to the Pete Wentz experience. But what Patrick wants to do to Pete now…well, that's something else entirely.

Pete presses a kiss to Patrick's cheek—not the usual Pete-smooch, which tends to be spitty and loud and a little gross—but a sweet brush of his lips.

"Pete," Patrick says, barely hanging onto his self-control by his fingernails.

Pete crooks a finger beneath Patrick's chin, coaxing until Patrick turns his head and Pete can kiss him. Pete-taste bursts on Patrick's tongue, wave after wave of _pleasure want need oh God_. He makes a wild, desperate noise and grapples at Pete's shoulders, holding him there, sucking on Pete's pretty bottom lip, licking at the inside of his mouth, trying to get more of that taste.

"Yeah, we are so doing this," Pete declares.

He gets to his feet, making Patrick cry out, a low, wounded sound, arms flailing, trying to get him back. Pete strips his hoodie and T-shirt up over his head, pops the button on his jeans and kicks them off. There's no one more efficient at getting naked than Pete Wentz. He's already half hard, his dick heavy and dark with blood. Patrick's mouth waters, drool threatening to run down his chin. He makes grabby hands at Pete. He wants to taste _everything_.

"Come on, Lunchbox. Time to get naked." Pete manhandles Patrick into a sitting position and strips the sweaty clothes off him with a speed that might be off-putting in other circumstances, but is totally made of win in this particular scenario.

Patrick flops back onto the bed, too weak with want to hold himself upright, and Pete stretches out next to him.

"Um, is this okay?" Pete asks, tentatively pressing closer.

The scent of him flares in Patrick's nostrils: warm skin and old coffee, arousal and the slightly bitter staleness that comes from riding too many hours in a car, and something more elemental, something that is just _Pete_. An impatient grunt spills out of Patrick, and he fumbles a hand onto Pete's hip, pulling him even closer. The touch of bare skin sets off a symphony in his head.

He's never regretted his decision to take on this work, to alter himself so fundamentally, to live forever apart from his own people, to never fully know what it is to be Grippkyn. But he feels a pang of grief for it now. Human senses are pale, dull things compared to a Grippkyn's. He can practically taste the blood pounding in Pete's neck. Feel the furious activity in every cell of his body. Smell his orgasm before it even happens.

"Patrick?" Pete looks at him uncertainly, his eyes big and wide and so very dark.

Patrick kisses him, sucking on his tongue, drinking in the taste of _Pete Pete Pete_. The hot thrum inside him ratchets up several notches, the insatiable demand of instinct. Patrick growls in the back of his throat and pushes Pete over onto his back, bites him on the neck, hard, right where the pulse pounds. He doesn't break the skin, but he can taste iron, feel the rush of blood on his tongue.

"Patrick," Pete gasps, tilting his head back, giving Patrick permission.

That sets off another cascade of desire. Patrick takes Pete's wrists in hand, pulls Pete's arms up above his head, wraps his fingers around the rungs of the headboard, and gives him a stern look: _Don't move_.

Pete grips the headboard more tightly, compliant for once. His cock lies wet against his belly. His chest rises and falls sharply. Patrick buries his face in the curve of Pete's neck, breathing in his scent. So good, so good, and he needs another taste. He sticks out his tongue and laps at the hollow created by Pete's collarbone, falling into the taste like an addict, a pleased hum in his head, _skin, salt, Pete, yum._

"God," Pete whimpers.

Patrick wants to learn Pete with his mouth, all of him, and he reluctantly leaves Pete's collarbone, moves on to his nipples. Pete arches up sharply at the first touch of Patrick's tongue.

"Mmm," Patrick murmurs.

"Fuck," Pete says breathlessly. "Please."

Pete's voice skitters along every nerve-ending in Patrick's body. The hum has turned to a rumble, deep and low and more perfect than any sound has a right to be. Every touch, every taste of Pete makes it stronger, building toward an inevitable crescendo.

Patrick kisses down Pete's chest, swirls his tongue around the rim of his belly button. Again, again.

"Patrick," Pete says sharply.

Again, again, like a circuit that can't be broken.

"_Patrick_," Pete says more emphatically, tangling his fingers in Patrick's hair, yanking his head up. "Dude. You're _glowing_."

Patrick blinks at him in a daze, but finally a few neurons fire, and he thinks to lift his hand, take a look. Fuck. Pete isn't just being hyperbolic. Actual light radiates off Patrick. His knowledge of the scmyllingott is basic at best, since he'd never expected to go through it himself. He has no idea if this is normal. _Fuck_.

"Um," he mumbles, trying and failing to come up with something reassuring to say, because anyone in their right mind would be freaking out right now.

Of course, Pete and the words "right mind" don't often appear in the same sentence. He stares at Patrick. "I always knew you were golden." There's a decided note of wonder in his voice.

He spreads his legs a little wider, and Patrick doesn't need more of an invitation than that. He kneels between Pete's thighs and takes his cock in his hand and snakes out his tongue to taste. Pleasure is a white-out in Patrick's head, and he wraps his lips around Pete's cock, sucking greedily.

"Shit!" Pete cries out, grabbing at Patrick's shoulders.

He bucks up his hips, trying to thrust, and Patrick lets him, lets Pete fuck his mouth. It's so good it makes Patrick dizzy, the taste and feel of cock on his tongue, _Pete Pete Pete_.

"Patrick." Pete's fingers dig into Patrick's arms. "I'm going to—"

Patrick curls his tongue around Pete's cock. Pete cries out and comes in his mouth.

"Oh God, Oh God," Pete chants breathlessly.

But Patrick's not done, not by a long shot. He flips Pete onto his belly, drawing a yelp of surprise out of him.

Patrick stretches up his body, licks at the trickle of sweat on Pete's neck, kisses and tongues down the length of his back. He pauses at the little dimple at the top of Pete's beautiful, round ass, lapping at it and worrying it with his teeth. Patrick urges Pete to pull one of his legs up under and traces the crease of his ass with his tongue.

"God," Pete whimpers.

The hum in Patrick's body gathers strength. If pleasure could be directly translated into music, this would be it. He bites at Pete's ass cheek and then sticks his tongue in his hole. Pete makes a startled noise of pleasure and pushes back against Patrick's face, trying to get more. Patrick gives it to him, gives him everything, fingers and tongue, until Pete is shaking and writhing on the bed and begging, "Trick, Trick," in a raggedy voice.

Patrick fumbles on a condom and slicks up and pushes inside Pete, burying his face in Pete's neck, wrapping his hands around Pete's wrists, holding on, holding him down.

"Fuck me, Patrick, fuck me," Pete pants.

Patrick does, deep, long thrusts, and the dividing line where he stops and Pete begins blurs. _Please, please_. It could be his voice or Pete's.

 

* * *

Patrick doesn't know how many times they have sex. It all passes in a blur of need and pleasure. He has only a vague memory of Pete limp, straddling him, still so tight around his cock, begging, "Patrick, come on, come _on_."

Eventually the scmyllingott burns itself out, and they collapse, exhausted, falling asleep in each other's arms.

When Patrick finally wakes up, sun slants through the window at pretty much the same angle as when he drifted off, which he thinks probably means an entire day has passed. Pete is already awake, turned on his side, perusing Patrick leisurely.

"So," Pete says.

"Uh. Yeah." Patrick frowns. "Are you okay?"

Pete nods lazily. "I'm sore, but happy. Guess a human can keep up with you, huh?"

Patrick ducks his head and can feel that he's blushing.

Pete smiles widely. "So, Trick, explain this whole coming-to-Earth thing to me. Because I've seen the baby pictures. And by the way, that bath time one with your cute little naked butt is still my favorite."

Patrick glares at him darkly. The fact that Patrick's mom let Pete go through his baby album is one of those things Never To Be Spoken Of Again.

"Come on, dude. Tell me," Pete prompts. "How'd you become a Stump?"

"Well, when I was genetically reprogrammed to be human, I was also age regressed. That's a usual side effect."

"Seriously?" Pete asks, looking interested.

"Yeah. The stasis chamber in the ship was programmed so I would develop into a full-grown adult by the time I arrived, but something went wrong, and the controls malfunctioned on landing, and the ship crashed in the Stump's backyard. And they took me in and raised me as their own."

"Dude." Pete stares at him with wide eyes. "You're like a real-life Clark Kent."

Patrick glares at him, fighting off a blush, not to much avail.

Pete smiles and kisses him. "You totally are. And your superpower is being totally adorable. So, I guess now that we've been through this scmyllingott thing together, you're not getting rid of me."

"I was never actually trying to get rid of you," Patrick points out.

"Anyway, it's too late now. Grippkyns mate for life."

"Actually, we don't—"

"Shut up! You do now." Pete settles his head on Patrick's chest in a pointed _not moving anytime soon_ fashion.

Patrick drapes an arm around him. "Okay," he says with a contented sigh. "We do now."


End file.
